


Epilogue: Arthur and Eames

by earlgreytea68



Series: KtCR [5]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Hanukkah, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-07
Updated: 2016-01-04
Packaged: 2018-05-05 09:28:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5370260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/earlgreytea68/pseuds/earlgreytea68
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's the time of year for happily ever afters. Here's Part 1.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you as ever to arctacuda for the beta, and for dealing with the fact that I can never make up my mind between "drily" and "dryly" (why, EGT, why?? Why not just stop using the word??). 
> 
> Thank you also to knackorcraft, who gave me feedback on this ages and ages and ages ago. 
> 
> This is the first epilogue for KtCR, focusing on Arthur and Eames. Arthur celebrates Chanukah, so that's why this is being posted first and now. John and Sherlock's will come later. To all of you celebrating, Happy Chanukah!

Chapter One

“What are your plans for Christmas?” asked Eames lazily, leaning back on their bed in Buenos Aires as if this wasn’t a total and complete non sequitur. 

“For what?” Arthur blinked at him in confusion. He’d just emerged from the shower, had just finished pulling a new, soft shirt over his head, and he pushed his wet hair out of his eyes and looked in surprise at Eames, still blatantly naked. 

“Christmas. Do you normally go home to your family? You can still go home. I won’t be offended.” 

Arthur stared at him. Then reminded him. “Eames, I’m Jewish.” 

“Oh. Of course.” Eames beamed at him. “So do you go home for Chanukah?” 

“I…” Arthur cocked his head at him. “No. Where is this coming from?” 

“Nowhere.” Eames shrugged. “I didn’t want you to change your plans because of me.” 

“First of all,” said Arthur, as he combed his hair back and Eames made that pained noise he always did because Eames was stupidly attached to the ridiculous curls, “why wouldn’t I change my plans because of you?” 

“I don’t know. I didn’t want you to feel like you _had_ to.” 

Arthur contemplated Eames by way of the mirror he was looking into. Eames was flipping his poker chip over his fingers, which was something he only did as a tactic of avoidance. He clearly didn’t want to meet Arthur’s eyes. Which meant there was more to this conversation. Which was, really, obvious from the fact that it was making no sense and had come out of the blue.

Arthur concentrated hard on combing his hair and considered. Did Eames _want_ to be taken home to Arthur’s family? Did he think Arthur _didn’t_ want that? Did he think Arthur was ashamed of him? Because nothing could have been farther from the truth. 

Arthur finished combing his hair with a run-through of gelled fingers, then turned to Eames, thinking, _Of course he’s fascinated by the family thing, he doesn’t have one_. Part of Arthur had been thinking that there was no reason to force Eames through the horror of someone else’s family over a holiday. But maybe Eames would not find it horrible. Maybe Eames craved it because he’d never had it. 

“I don’t normally go home for Chanukah,” he said, because lying about it was useless, his parents would fuss as soon as he got there. 

“Oh,” said Eames, still very casual. “Then don’t—”

“But that’s normally because I’m working. I don’t have a job planned, so I was thinking I’d go. Do you have a job planned?” Arthur was fairly sure Eames didn’t—sometimes Arthur thought he knew Eames’s schedule better than Eames did—but he kept the conversation light as he rolled up his sleeves to his desired length. 

“No,” said Eames. “But I could—”

“Don’t be silly. I mean, if one comes up that you want to take, take it. But you could come home with me.” Arthur walked over to the bedside table, pulling his watch off of it and fastening it onto his wrist. 

“I don’t know,” said Eames, and looked at Arthur from underneath his lashes, which was very unlike him. “Only if you think I wouldn’t be intruding.” 

“You would be helping,” Arthur said, and leaned over him on the bed, forcing him to meet his eyes, because Eames always looked him straight in the eye and it had been disconcerting not to have that. “Trust me. Iowa is better with sex.” 

Eames grinned at him, one of those very open, very honest smiles that made him look unexpectedly vulnerable, and Arthur had never thought of Eames as vulnerable until this whole thing had started and he’d realized that there was a very delicate part of Eames that no one ever saw. Until he started showing it to Arthur, and Arthur always experienced a flood of adrenaline at the sight, terror that he handle the whole thing correctly, and it wasn’t the sort of thing he could research his way to a comfort level with. 

“Speaking of,” said Eames, and fixed the collar of Arthur’s shirt unnecessarily before tugging him in for a kiss. 

“Mmph,” said Arthur into his mouth, and tried to twist to see the time on his watch. “I’ve got to go, remember?” 

“Mmm,” said Eames, pulling Arthur closer. “No. Don’t remember that,” he mumbled, and bit at Arthur’s lower lip. 

“I thought you didn’t like to make me change my plans,” said Arthur, but Eames was leaning back and Arthur was following him down, and there was no way Eames hadn’t already won this discussion and he knew it. 

“I’m changing my official stance on that,” said Eames, pulling to line Arthur up with him properly. 

“I’ll alert the media,” said Arthur, and let Eames pull his shirt up over his head. “I just got dressed.” 

“Uh-huh,” said Eames, and unbuckled his belt. 

“Fuck you,” Arthur sighed, and pressed against him. 

“Anything you like, love. Although I was thinking the other way ‘round.” 

Arthur looked at his watch again. 

Eames grabbed his wrist and took the watch off and tossed it aside. 

“That’s a very expensive watch,” Arthur informed him. “You can’t just throw it around.” 

“I will steal you another one if I’ve damaged that one. One that doesn’t work, so that you never know when you have appointments and I can just keep you in bed all day.” 

“What a plan,” said Arthur drily. “You master trickster, you.” 

Eames grinned up at him again. “Christ, I love it when you call me delicious names.” 

“If I’m going to be late, you had better fucking make it worth my while,” Arthur warned him. 

Eames looked mock offended. “You _doubt_ me?” he exclaimed, and then he flipped Arthur over. 

***

Arthur had heard, throughout his childhood, that he was a great deal like his mother. 

Which was why his mother always took his very occasional phone calls in full stride. She didn’t guilt him about it, or fret over him, or fuss. She merely said calmly, as if she heard from him all the time, “Hello, how are you, did you hear about Jamie Buchanan?” 

Arthur listened to some of her Iowa gossip while frowning at the gumbo he was making and dodging Tate, who was playing furiously with his arch-nemesis, a flattened raccoon toy whose stuffing he had eliminated long ago. 

Arthur was in Manhattan, having just finished up a job in the city, and Eames was on a flight, having just finished his own job, with a plan to meet Arthur that night. So Arthur was making them dinner because he knew them well enough by now to know that they would need fortification at some point in the night and they never got anything done if they had to have an argument over what kind of delivery to order; it was better to have the food waiting. 

Eventually Arthur said, “Listen, what are the plans for Chanukah?” 

“For Chanukah?” his mother echoed. “The usual plans.” 

Arthur didn’t remember the usual plans, because Arthur couldn’t remember the last time he’d been home for Chanukah. But he assumed the usual plans meant his family would be at home in Iowa. He said, “I’m thinking of coming home.” 

“For Chanukah?” His mother sounded absurdly pleased. “Oh, Arthur, that would be lovely! You’ll bring Eames, of course. Unless the reason you’re suddenly coming home is because you’ve broken up with him and are heartbroken.” His mother sounded very harsh, and Arthur thought of the way he delivered threats, with that flat conviction, and how effective it was. 

Arthur said, “No, we’re fine. We’re good. And yes, Eames would be coming.” 

“Excellent,” his mother said. “This will be delightful. You’ll stay at the house?” 

“I think we’ll get a hotel,” said Arthur, thinking of privacy issues. And also, “Plus there’s the dog. We have a dog, too.”

“The dog is welcome, of course, but have it your way,” said his mother mildly. 

“Eames isn’t Jewish,” said Arthur, wondering if that was necessary information but figuring he ought to share it anyway.

“But is he the person you want to be with?” asked his mother. 

“Yes,” answered Arthur honestly. 

“Then what does it matter?” 

***

Arthur made them a Thanksgiving dinner in Paris. Arthur had always made himself a Thanksgiving dinner, no matter where he was in the world. Arthur loved Thanksgiving. He was very good at turkeys and stuffing, and he really did think he made the best mashed potatoes in the world. 

Eames apparently agreed. “Arthur, these are the best mashed potatoes in the _world_ ,” he told him, enthusiastically shoveling them into his mouth. 

“Please don’t choke,” Arthur replied. “I don’t feel like doing the Heimlich on Thanksgiving.”

“Would utterly ruin the holiday,” Eames agreed, still talking with his mouth full and now nodding his head enthusiastically. “This is a brilliant holiday, by the way. Americans are brilliant. Have I told you that?” 

“We’ve never worked together on Thanksgiving before?” said Arthur. 

“Do you do this every year?” Eames suddenly looked up, aghast. “Do you do this for _other people_?”

Arthur smiled faintly. “I tell them that I ordered it in.” 

“I thought I would have heard a rumor somewhere of you being a good cook if anyone had ever tasted these mashed potatoes. Nevertheless.” Eames waved a fork full of mashed potatoes at Arthur. “Don’t cook for other people, darling. I’ll get dreadfully jealous. These mashed potatoes are almost as good as sex.” 

“Better than sex,” Arthur said. 

“Well, now I’m just offended,” said Eames. 

“Try them again,” rejoined Arthur confidently. 

Eames swiped a finger into the mashed potatoes and smeared them onto Arthur’s neck. 

Arthur sighed. “Eames…” 

“Yes, love of my life?” said Eames, and licked the mashed potatoes up. Much more thoroughly than was actually necessary.

“You are literally licking mashed potatoes off of me.” 

“Uh-huh,” Eames said, and followed up with a pretty solid bite. 

Arthur swore at him. 

“You’re right,” Eames murmured, pressing ghosts of kisses along Arthur’s jaw. “Upon reflection, they _are_ better than sex.” A kiss into his dimple now. Eames was so fucking obsessed with his dimples. 

“You’re so fucking ridiculous,” Arthur said into his mouth. 

“Not the word you’re looking for,” Eames said as he kissed him. 

“What’s the word I’m looking for?” asked Arthur, trying to ignore the fact that he was panting. 

Eames’s hand was at his belt. “Hot?” he suggested, and slid his hand inside. 

“Get the turkey out of the way and fuck me on the table,” Arthur commanded. 

“Thanksgiving is the fucking sexiest holiday,” said Eames, and Arthur shoved him backwards toward the table. “Wait, wait, wait,” Eames said, holding Arthur back so he could dramatically sweep the plate settings off the table and to the floor. 

“You’re cleaning that up,” Arthur warned him. 

“That’s fine, I always wanted to do that,” said Eames, and pressed Arthur up against the table and nipped at his lower lip. 

“You’ve never fucked anyone on a table before?” Arthur asked, dealing with Eames’s jeans. “That’s, like, a third date for me.” 

“I say this with love, but shut up, my dearest darling,” said Eames, and pushed him back onto the table. 

And, honestly, tables weren’t the most comfortable surface to be pressed down on, especially not a table with a turkey right next to you, but Arthur didn’t care much about that because he’d fucked Eames in some of the filthiest back alleys of the sketchiest cities with bounties on both of their heads, so he wasn’t about to complain about a little thing like their dining table. Eames’s hands were _magic_ , Arthur always forgot everything when they stroked _just so_ , and Eames knew that, and also knew to press his mouth wetly behind Arthur’s ear and breathe nonsense words at him that were half filthy and half adoring. Really, he could say anything, because Arthur had a thing for Eames’s voice when it got all growly in his ear like that. 

Okay, Arthur just had a thing for Eames; it was a little embarrassing. 

Arthur tried to gain a little more leverage on Eames, because he didn’t actually normally spend a ton of time so thoroughly pinned during sex, the tablecloth bunching uncomfortably underneath him, and Eames mumbled into his collarbone, one hand distractedly unbuttoning Arthur’s shirt while the other kept stroking. “Tell me you stuffed the turkey with lube.” 

“If you stop right now to go in search of lube,” Arthur threatened, “I will stuff the turkey up your ass.” 

“Not what I was planning on doing with the lube,” said Eames, and let Arthur flip them over. This sent the wine bottle toppling but Arthur didn’t fucking care. He attacked Eames’s pants and kissed him with a lot of tongue, and Eames managed, “Jesus Christ, Arthur,” and tugged ineffectually at Arthur’s shirt. 

Things might have been a blur after that. He wasn’t sure whose hands went where, just that they all went lovely places, and it was Arthur’s favorite way to be brought off, honestly, panting into Eames’s mouth, partly because Arthur had a thing for Eames’s mouth above all of the other Eames parts that he had a thing for, but partly because, embarrassingly, Arthur liked the intimacy of it, the part where it was impossible to tell whose breath was whose, the part where they turned to each other, frantic, as if to a source of air. Arthur would never tell Eames this but he hadn’t spent a lot of time kissing during sex before he’d met Eames. Eames would have told anyone that he thought it was Arthur’s greatest turn-on, and Arthur knew it was true, but that it was only true when it came to _Eames_ , he had just never wanted someone so _close_ before. 

“I _slaved_ over that turkey,” Arthur gasped eventually, sprawled in debauchery on their Thanksgiving dinner table. Eames apparently had enough energy to be propped up on an elbow next to him, walking his fingers idly over Arthur’s ribcage. Arthur thought he’d done a poor job of exhausting Eames and he’d have to try again later, when he wasn’t so exhausted himself, so he just closed his eyes and let Eames pet at him, because Eames liked that, and Arthur liked it, too, although he pretended just to tolerate it for Eames’s sake. “And you knocked it to the floor.” 

“All for a good cause, petal,” Eames said, and leaned over and pressed the flat of his tongue onto Arthur’s sternum. “It was a delicious turkey. Tate is really enjoying it.” 

“Fuck,” said Arthur, in weary resignation, and combed his hands through Eames’s hair as Eames settled on his chest. 

“You know what we still have, though?” Eames asked. 

“If you say ‘each other,’ I’ll kill you,” Arthur told him. 

“Ha!” said Eames. “I didn’t even think of that! Look at you, spouting the romantic lines.” 

“I suppose it was inevitable your incredible ridiculousness would rub off on me eventually,” said Arthur. 

Eames lifted his head and leered at him. “I try to rub off on you as often as possible.” 

“I’ve noticed.” 

“You’re delightful and I adore you,” Eames informed him, “and we still have your mashed potatoes.” He picked up a mashed-potato-covered hand and held it up for Arthur’s inspection. 

“That is absolutely disgusting,” said Arthur. 

Eames commenced to licking the mashed potatoes off of his hand, making obscene noises. 

Arthur rolled his eyes. “Sometimes I hope our enemies bug this place. They’ll just think we’re making the world’s worst pornos all the time.”

“Arthur, this is how the French do Thanksgiving, trust me.” 

“The French don’t do Thanksgiving.”

“If they did, they’d do it like this.” 

“Okay,” said Arthur. “I was actually trying to have a conversation with you.” 

“Were you, darling? About what? Wait, do you want to start making pornos? I have connections in the industry.” 

“Of course you do. No, what I wanted to tell you, before you went insane over the mashed potatoes, was that I talked to my mother.” 

Eames momentarily stopped behaving like an idiot, looking at Arthur seriously. “She’s okay?” 

“She’s fine. I told her we were coming for Chanukah.” 

“Oh.” Eames’s expression was inscrutable. Arthur hated that particular expression. He hated that Eames still knew how to become inscrutable to him. “She was okay with it?” 

“Of course she was okay with it, Eames.” Arthur frowned. “Why wouldn’t she have been okay with it?” 

“I don’t know,” said Eames nonchalantly, and rolled onto his back next to Arthur. “This table actually isn’t big enough for the two of us, really.” 

Like Arthur was going to let him change that subject. Arthur propped himself up onto his elbow and frowned down at Eames. “Why wouldn’t she have been okay with it?” 

“Look. Arthur. If she doesn’t want the prodigal son’s alarmingly useless and profligate boyfriend tagging along—”

“That’s not what you are.” 

“Lover?” said Eames. “Paramour?” 

“Shut up,” Arthur told him. “Of course you’re my boyfriend. You’re neither useless nor profligate.” 

Eames lifted an eyebrow. 

“Okay, you’re a little bit profligate. But I, you know, love you anyway.” Arthur wished he could learn how to say that without blushing so humiliatingly. Damn it, why was Eames _so good_ at _just saying it_? Arthur could hate him for that, but he forged onward. “And she asked right away if you were coming along. Because she wants you to. She was actually worried that we might have broken up. She likes you a lot.” 

“She met me once and I’m fairly sure she thinks I was trying to deflower you up against her car when it was definitely the other way around.” 

Arthur raised his eyebrows. “Deflower you? Really? You haven’t had a flower in well over twenty years.” 

“I just want you to know that this is a terrible post-coital conversation we’re having here. It’s in our top ten terrible post-coital conversations. I’m ranking it with that time you climaxed with ‘Fuck yes, Eames, and now that that’s done don’t forget to clean up the vomit in the men’s room.’”

“I didn’t want you to blow your janitor cover.” 

“And if you think I’ve forgiven you for making me be a _janitor_ during that job, you’re very wrong, by the way.” 

“Yes, yes, I know, you hold very fierce grudges,” said Arthur drily, and then settled his head on Eames’s chest, because Eames was right that the table didn’t quite fit them unless they were curled up into each other a bit, and anyway not being able to see Eames made it easier for him to say, “She likes you because I like you. That’s the only criterion.” 

Eames was silent for a moment, and then brushed at Arthur’s hair, which Arthur knew was a mess and sticky from spilled wine and probably also from the yams. 

“You don’t have to go,” Arthur said, into the silence. “You can still take a job, and I wouldn’t—”

“Do you want me to take a job, Arthur?” Eames cut him off. 

Arthur hesitated. Then he admitted, “No, I want you to come with me.”

“That settles that, then,” said Eames. And then, “Best Thanksgiving ever, darling, thank you.” 

Arthur said, “I made a pumpkin pie, too.”


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

It wasn’t that Eames was nervous. 

He was, of course, not nervous at all. 

Eames had stolen _da Vincis_ , for Christ’s sake. He was definitely _not nervous_ about going to Arthur’s family’s for Chanukah. Not when he was the one who had suggested it. And he had already met these people. He talked to Arthur’s sister—behind Arthur’s back—on a biweekly basis. It was all going to be totally fine. He’d pulled off long cons before, and he could surely con these people into thinking he deserved their son/brother/uncle for the eight days of Chanukah. 

Arthur was in a cranky mood, and Eames suspected that _Arthur_ was nervous, which did very little to help Eames’s nerves (which did _not_ exist. But still). Arthur complained about customs, complained about the car, complained about the weather, complained about the traffic. Eames sat with Tate on his lap and both of them watched Arthur as he drove and complained. 

And finally Eames said, “Pull over.”

“What?” Arthur gave him a startled look. “Why? What’s wrong?” 

“Tate needs to go out,” Eames said. 

Arthur groaned. “How do you know?” 

“You know I speak Tate.” 

“We’re going to be late,” Arthur spit out. “Because of all the _traffic_ getting out of the city. And now _this_.” 

“Right, but you’re making up tons of time now,” Eames noted, because they’d been on some kind of deserted, middle-of-nowhere, quasi-motorway thing for miles now. 

Arthur grumbled but pulled off over to the shoulder. He didn’t even turn the car off, as Eames got out of the car with Tate and looked around them. It was sunset, and for as far as Eames could see the sky was tinged red and pink. And there was nothing and no one around. Which was perfect. 

He opened the back door and deposited Tate unceremoniously into the backseat. “Sorry, mate. Stay there for a while, would you?” he said when Tate looked offended at him. 

“What are you doing?” Arthur asked, one eyebrow lifted in disapproval, as Eames got back in the car. 

Eames leaned over and turned the car off. “I’m giving you a blowjob so you’ll relax.” 

Arthur’s eyes widened and he tried to scramble away from Eames as Eames unbuckled his seatbelt. “What?” 

“Arthur, seriously, stop squirming around before we have an unfortunate incident with the zipper here. That would _really_ make us late.” 

“Eames— _Christ_ —we don’t have time—”

“I love you pretending I can’t get you off in five minutes flat.” 

“The _dog_ is here,” Arthur protested, but his hands were already in Eames’s hair so Eames was ignoring him. 

“Anyone could see us, but you’re worried about our dog. Tate, close your eyes so as not to be exposed to all of this filth. Arthur, stay still because I’m in a precarious position here.” 

“Fuck,” said Arthur, and Eames smiled and got to work, and afterward he let himself get dragged across the gearbox awkwardly in order to give Arthur access to his mouth because Arthur had a very obvious thing for kissing him and practically preferred it to other activities when given a choice. “You’re a fucking lunatic,” Arthur panted at him, hands cupping his head as he kissed him and kissed him and kissed him. 

“I love you, too,” Eames said around his kisses. And then, “We don’t have to do this. You can turn the car around and we can go in the other direction.” 

Arthur stopped kissing him. Arthur rested his forehead against Eames’s and said, after a long moment of silence, “Sorry. I’m sorry.” 

“For what?” 

“I didn’t mean to give you the impression I don’t want to do this. I… Well, you know how it is. I am bad at being a boyfriend.” 

“No, you’re not.” 

“I’ve never taken anyone home before.”

A thought suddenly occurred to Eames. “Does your family not know you’re gay?” 

“Eames, they’ve _met_ you. I think it was pretty obvious you’re not a woman.” 

“I meant your extended family,” Eames said indignantly. 

“They don’t care about that. I’m not nervous about you. I’m nervous about _me_. If they’ll think I’m ridiculous.” 

“Why would they think that?” 

“Because I just let you blow me in the front seat of a car on a public highway.” 

“But, Arthur, darling, _look_ at me. No one would ever question the wisdom of that particular choice on your part. That’s the least ridiculous thing you’ve ever done. And if anybody starts to make you feel ridiculous, pull out your gun. Or I’ll pull out mine. That’s the remedy for ridiculousness.” 

“There’s something very wrong with us,” Arthur said. 

“Arthur, are you happy?” 

“What a stupid thing to ask me. Don’t be an idiot. You know I’m happy.” 

“Then who the fuck cares?” Eames said into his neck. 

Arthur stroked at his hair in that habit he had that Eames was a little addicted to and a little more crazy over. He said, “Thank you for my blowjob.” 

“I expect a proper thank you note, you know. Formal diction and all,” said Eames. “You’re terribly rude. I question your upbringing. I’m going to bring it up to your mother, actually. ‘You may have taught him how to make a bed properly, but he’s no idea how to fuck politely.’”

“I think the first rule of fucking politely is not to call it ‘fucking.’”

“Arthur.” Eames lifted his head up and said very seriously, “I want you to know that I never, ever fuck you. I always make very passionate and emotional love to you.” 

Arthur smiled at him and kissed him briefly. “I owe you one,” he said. 

“You do. Our balance sheet is off-kilter. Tate, you can open your eyes now.” 

“Stop being ridiculous,” Arthur told him, but his dimples were showing and Eames kissed them, one after the other. When Arthur pulledback onto the highway, the dimples were _still_ showing, and Eames considered the whole thing a victory. 

Except for the fact that it hadn’t really helped Eames’s nerves at all. 

And of course— _of course_ —Arthur had grown up in some picture-perfect white clapboard house in the middle of sodding _cornfields_. Eames looked at the house mournfully, Tate sitting next to him and also looking at it. Tate was an ace traveler and uncowed by every crowded city in the world, but Eames thought Tate also thought this dark and quiet countryside was unnerving. 

“Could you be any more of an American cliché?” Eames asked Arthur, from where he was fussing in the boot of the car with the gifts he’d brought. “I mean, white clapboard and cornfields? _Really_?” 

Arthur paused and gave him a genuinely disbelieving look. “Did you just say that to me? _You_?” 

“Why do you say it like that?” Eames asked, surprised by this reaction. 

“Because you are a _walking cliché_ , oh my God, you stick out your little finger when you drink tea and you insist we stock Marmite in our otherwise beautiful kitchen, and the other day you wanted to wear a _cravat_.” 

Eames blinked at him. “I’m…not following your point here, love.” 

“You call me ‘love.’”

“Do you not like that? I always thought you liked that. And it’s accurate. Would you rather—”

And then the front door of the house opened and there was a chorus of greetings that all contained Arthur’s name in some way, shape, or form, and suddenly Arthur was engulfed by a sea of people, and Eames stood off to the side and watched and tried not to be completely overwhelmed. Tate pressed up against Eames’s leg in what Eames decided must be horror, and Eames leaned down and picked him up. Tate wasn’t a big dog, but he also wasn’t a small one, and he didn’t fit quite comfortably in Eames’s arms or on Eames’s lap, but sometimes Eames thought they both needed to pretend that wasn’t true. 

Arthur’s sister turned to him first and said, “Don’t think we’re ignoring you,” and then descended on the bundle of him and Tate for a hug. 

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Eames managed to mumble into the hug. 

“How are you?” Danielle asked him, drawing back, and then, “You look like hell.” 

“Long flight. And we’re not on this time zone.” Eames frowned briefly, because there had been a job in between Thanksgiving and now, and so he hadn’t been in one time zone for more than a few hours for days. “I actually don’t know what time zone I’m on.” 

“Well, we’ll light a candle and you’ll have a latke and then you can sleep. Hello, Tate.” Danielle rubbed Tate’s head. 

Tate looked uncertain. Tate was like Arthur when it came to new people. 

“This is Arthur’s sister,” Eames told Tate. “She’s therefore acceptable by extension.” 

Danielle grinned at him. “‘Acceptable.’ And here I thought you were supposed to be charming.” 

“I’m jetlagged,” Eames said. “I’m sorry, Tate. This is Arthur’s sister. She is glorious and delicious.” 

“Better,” said Danielle. Danielle had Arthur’s dimples, but she was much freer with smiles and Eames felt a little bit like she was showy with them. He wanted to tell her to put those away, they were for special occasions. 

“Are you hogging Eames?” said Arthur’s mother, swooping over to them. “It is so lovely to have you here with us. And is this Tate? Hello, Tate. Don’t worry, we won’t keep you very long just now, you look dead on your feet.” 

That was the second comment about that. “Christ, I must look terrible,” said Eames, and then realized what he’d said and tried to backpedal. “I mean—I shouldn’t have said that, right? Sorry—”

Arthur’s mother smiled at him. She did not have her children’s dimples. She said, “Come inside and I’ll feed you.” 

Eames looked around for Arthur, who was crouched down next to two children, showing them something complicated on one of the toys he’d brought. The niece and nephew, he thought, who he had never met before. Arthur looked caught up in them, and Eames supposed he was fine on his own for a little while longer. Anyway, Arthur’s mother had hooked her arm through Eames’s and was now dragging him into the house and introducing the bevy of people all around them. Most of them fussed a great deal over Tate, but a lot of them also made booming jokes about meeting the person who had finally managed to make Arthur lose his famously level head, and Eames suddenly saw why Arthur had been worried about being mocked for being ridiculous. 

Eames finally said something like, “Arthur’s head is still incredibly level,” and he thought maybe his irritation was showing. 

But Arthur’s mother said, “Of course it is. Arthur waited so long because he wanted to bring home a sexy British man. Tell me that doesn’t prove Arthur was always the smartest of all of us.” 

And that seemed to rein in the curiosity over Arthur being love-foolish or whatever nonsense they thought. 

“You look like you could use some coffee,” Arthur’s mother said, pressing some into his hand. 

Eames had to put Tate down to fully appreciate it, but it was worth it. “You are my favorite member of this family,” Eames told her. 

“That attached to coffee, are you?” she said, looking amused. 

“No,” he said seriously. “That attached to Arthur. Thank you for that comment.” 

Eames’s mother looked momentarily confused. “As if I wouldn’t stand up for my own son?” 

Which, of course, made sense, except that Eames forgot that other people’s parents really did do things like that. Other people’s parents were _around_. Eames felt like an idiot. 

Arthur’s mother just said, “Anyway, it’s easy to stand up for your existence when Arthur’s home for Chanukah for the first time in ages and I think that must be down to you. So I am prepared to be your biggest fan.” 

“Well,” Eames said, uncharacteristically desiring to be modest, “I don’t know how much I had to do with it.” 

“He seems very happy,” Eames’s mother went on. 

She had interacted with him for only a few minutes. Eames’s skepticism must have shown on his face. 

“My husband would tell you that Arthur’s a lot like me.” 

Since Eames found Arthur’s mother as elusively terrifying as he found Arthur as a concept, Eames thought he was inclined to agree. 

“So I understand that he has always been in search of something. And I’ve also known what it would look like when he stopped searching and finally got to be content. I’ve been waiting for that. So yes, I am prepared to be your biggest fan. Unless you break his heart and then I’ll chop you up into tiny pieces and make you into canapés.” 

“Just like Arthur,” croaked Eames. “Totally seeing it now.” 

Arthur’s mother smiled at him. 

“Are you terrorizing my new favorite person?” asked Danielle, descending upon them. “Do not terrorize my new favorite person, Mom. Arthur will _kill_ you. Here, Eames, this is for you.” She thrust a latke at him. “We need to feed you. It’s our driving instinct as Jewish people.” 

“I will not refuse,” Eames said, because his body clock was all messed up but he _was_ hungry. More for breakfast than dinner, but it didn’t really matter. 

“Danielle is your cheerleader,” Arthur’s mother told Eames. 

“We have interesting conversations,” Eames said. 

“Eames has the best ideas for how to get Hallie to pay more attention to her homework,” said Danielle. 

“I always tell Arthur I missed my calling as an advice columnist,” Eames agreed solemnly. 

“You should call me, too,” Arthur’s mother pouted, and yes, Eames thought, _definitely_ just like Arthur. “I would like to be in on these conversations.” 

“There you are,” said Arthur suddenly, looking almost out-of-breath and slightly anxious. “I was looking for you.” 

Eames was surprised at how anxious he seemed. “I’m right here. I’m being fed.” He held up his half-finished latke. 

“Right.” Arthur looked between all of them and back at Eames. “Everything good?” 

He’d been anxious for _him_ , Eames thought, and smiled. “I’m fine.” 

“Eames and I are fast friends,” Danielle said, and threaded her arm through the crook of Eames’s elbow. “And I’m on his side in the debate over where the couch should be. The middle of the room is a terrible idea.” 

Arthur blinked at her. Then blinked at Eames. Then said, “The couch debate? That’s what you’re talking about?” 

“What couch debate?” Arthur’s mother said. 

Arthur blinked again. Then he frowned. “Wait,” he said and turned to Eames in accusation. “When did you tell Danielle about the couch debate?” 

“Um,” said Eames. “The other day?” he offered. 

“A couple of weeks ago,” Danielle said. 

“Yeah, a couple of weeks ago.” 

“Do you two…” Arthur looked astonished. “Do you two _talk_?” 

“Well,” said Eames. “Yes. A bit.” 

“We bonded over how terrible you are at keeping in touch,” Danielle said, with a faint frown of disapproval. 

“I keep in touch,” Arthur said defensively. 

“He does,” Eames said loyally. And then, “You do. It’s just that I understand worrying about you and not getting timely responses to texts, so I thought I’d—”

The tips of Arthur’s ears were red. “I am _much_ better at texting than I used to be.” 

“Yes,” Eames agreed, feeling terrible that this was all happening now. He should have told Arthur much sooner that he’d started talking to his sister, but he’d been worried Arthur would tell him he’d crossed a line. And now it was clear he _had_ and he should have let Arthur yell at him about this when they were in private instead of dealing with it now, as if Eames had set up an ambush. “Leaps and bounds,” he said. “It happened rather by accident. You were away on a job. You know how I am left to my own devices, darling. Utterly hopeless.” 

“He only says good things,” said Danielle, clearly deciding she had to help Eames out here. “He says the most ridiculously lovey-dovey things. I should record them and send them to you.” 

“She’s lying,” said Eames. “I am never anything but dignified, as you well know.” 

Arthur looked…okay. In fact, Eames thought there was a quirked suggestion of a dimple in Arthur’s cheek. Eames let out his breath in relief. 

“It all sounds very lovey-dovey, you only telling her one side of the story on the couch debate,” said Arthur. 

Eames smiled at him. “Go ahead, love, tell them all your side. It’s very boring and has to do with the optimum angle at which to watch television. It involved _calculus_ ,” he confided to Danielle and Arthur’s mother. 

Arthur said, “Your side involved _feng shui_.” 

“Eames is teaching me feng shui, it’s fascinating,” said Danielle. 

“Eames doesn’t know feng shui, he’s making it up.” 

“Lies,” said Eames. “Scandalous lies. Darling, go off and play with the niece and the nephew before you completely destroy my mystique.” 

“You’re good?” Arthur said, just by way of further confirmation. 

“Excellent,” Eames promised him, and held his gaze so he would know he wasn’t lying. 

Arthur nodded once and stole the rest of Eames’s latke and said, “Don’t believe a word that comes out of his mouth, he is a compulsive liar, he’ll have you believing he stole the Mona Lisa.” Arthur winked at him as he walked away, biting into the latke. 

Eames began, “Don’t listen to—” and then found himself completely cut off by how tightly Arthur’s mother hugged him. Eames tried to counterbalance his mug of coffee so as not to spill it all over her. 

“ _Completely_ your fan,” she choked out into his ear. “And _so_ going to make you into canapés if you make that go away.” 

“Yeah,” Eames agreed, and thought of the way Arthur smiled at him, like he was responsible for all of the most astonishing things in the universe, even though there was nothing the least bit remarkable about him and Arthur of all people ought to know that. “If I make that go away, I think I’d be ahead of you in the making myself into canapés thing.”


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three

The family seemed to consider him an astonishing curiosity, in all his British, non-Jewishness. Eames found if he talked about art he had them all rapt with attention, and so he spent the evening doing that, and eating the food Danielle and Arthur’s mother kept pressing into his hand, and he thought he did a good job convincing everyone that he was worth Arthur’s while. 

“What do you think?” he asked Danielle, when he was in the kitchen helping her with the dishes. “How did I do?” 

“I think you shouldn’t be in here doing the dishes, you’re a guest,” said Danielle. “But definitely they’re all making good, positive notes about how you’re in here doing the dishes.” 

“Entirely why I’m in here. I don’t do anything without making sure I know the upside,” said Eames. 

“Liar,” Danielle smiled at him. “Arthur’s right about you: you are a compulsive liar because you hope it covers up the fact that you’re an enormous softie.” 

“Danielle, I do hope you realize that if you continue to say such terrible things about me I shall have to sue you for slander.” 

Danielle put her dishtowel down and propped her hip against the sink and said, “You were dead on your feet three hours ago. Find my brother and make him take you to the hotel. We’ll all still be here tomorrow. And the day after that.” 

“Right,” Eames agreed, because the caffeine from all the coffee was starting to wear off. “Agreed. And on one of those days I’m going to get you drunk and make you tell me what really happened with Nick.” 

“You realize I won’t tell Arthur because I’m worried he’ll kill someone over it.” 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. He’s a mild-mannered chef who can barely stand to gut a fish.” 

“I’m not actually any surer that you won’t kill someone over it, too.” 

“And I’m an artist. I create beautiful things.” 

“Uh-huh. Go find Arthur. I’ll see you tomorrow.” 

Eames smiled at her and kissed her cheek and snagged one more jelly doughnut on his way out of the kitchen, where he ran into Arthur’s mother on her way in. 

“Looking for Arthur,” Eames told her. 

“Upstairs,” she said. “He was in his bedroom with the kids, last I saw him.” 

In his _bedroom_. Eames was almost giddy with delight at the prospect of this. 

Eames followed the voices to Arthur’s bedroom. The extended family had all departed, and the house was empty enough that Arthur’s voice was a clear beacon for Eames. The room he was in was a good size and terribly neat, and Eames thought maybe that was because Arthur hadn’t lived there in a while, but he bet it had been neat even when Arthur _had_ lived there. Eames leaned up against the doorjamb, watching the proceedings with interest. Arthur was sitting on the braided oval rug in the middle of the warm honey hardwood floor, with Hallie and Adam crowded around him, and he was doing something with the toy laser gun he’d brought them, fiddling around with it. 

“I think,” he was saying, “that absolutely…” And then he suddenly lifted the gun up and pulled the trigger at Adam’s face. There was a dramatic laser effect, complete with laser-death sound, and Adam groaned and giggled and said, “That was _cheating_ , Uncle Arthur.” 

“ _Cheating_?” said Arthur, and then suddenly rounded on Hallie, who had lunged across the room for the other laser gun, and really, Hallie had Arthur’s reflexes, Hallie would have been brilliant in a gunfight, Eames thought, because he couldn’t tell who had won that particular face-off. Tate, meanwhile, ran around while Arthur “died” very dramatically, and Tate licked at his face in concern, and Hallie sat on Arthur’s chest and said, “Don’t be so dramatic,” and Arthur tackled her, tickling her, and that was when he caught sight of Eames.

“Oh,” he said, and pushed his tumbled hair out of his eyes. “Hi.” 

“I don’t mean to interrupt the very important battle,” said Eames. 

“No, Uncle Arthur lost,” Hallie informed him. 

“I saw that. He loses a lot. He is _terrible_ with guns.”

“This is Eames,” Arthur said to the kids. “He’s actually a pretty horrible person and you should both be awful to him.” 

Hallie and Adam both seemed to be adept at ignoring their uncle Arthur, because they didn’t even blink. Eames walked into the room and picked up one of the abandoned guns and said, “Tell me one side is a rebel alliance.” 

“It’s us,” Adam said. “Uncle Arthur is on the side of the capitalist patriarchy.” 

Eames lifted his eyebrows. “You, young master Adam, read the right sort of books.” Then he lifted the gun and waved it a bit, looking at Arthur. “We need these.” 

“We don’t need these. You’d destroy everything in our house making us have gunfights all the time.” 

“Down with the capitalist patriarchy,” said Eames, and shot his laser gun in Arthur’s face, and then sat on the floor with everybody else and spoke to the kids. “Tomorrow, we are going to have an _epic_ game of laser tag with these.” 

Hallie cocked her head, considering. “Are you any good?” 

Arthur rolled around on the floor laughing like this was hysterical. 

“Shut up, you, you’ve already been killed once tonight,” Eames told him, and then looked at Hallie. “I am very, very good. Much better than your uncle Arthur.” 

“You realize that it is now _on_ for tomorrow,” said Arthur. He was flat on his back now, looking up at Eames, looking very young in that way he had when he was sunnily untroubled, purely happy. 

“I welcome the challenge,” said Eames. 

“Let’s eviscerate him,” said Adam. 

“I like you lot,” Eames told the kids. “You’re my favorites.”

“Hallie! Adam! Whatever violent thing your uncle Arthur is teaching you right now, stop it and come down here and get your coats on!” Danielle called up the stairs. 

They groaned and went out to the hallway to negotiate more time. 

Arthur said to Eames, “How many members of my family think they’re your favorite?”

“All of them. As long as they don’t talk to each other, ever, I should be okay.” 

“Uh-huh.” 

Eames sprawled out and kissed him because he couldn’t help it. 

“Don’t,” said Arthur, pretending he wasn’t kissing him back. “This is totally inappropriate and the kids are right outside.” 

“You’re a terrible influence on those kids,” Eames said, and stopped kissing him, propping himself up on his elbow. “You should be teaching them how to bake a cake.” 

“I’ll do that, too. I like them to be well-rounded. You look exhausted.” 

Eames realized he was mid-yawn and couldn’t help it. “People have been telling me that all night.” 

“I didn’t even think about how jetlagged you must be. I’m sorry. We should have left much sooner.” 

“Take me to the hotel now and let me sleep eighteen hours and we’ll call it even.” 

“Yeah,” Arthur said, and picked himself up off the floor. “Let’s go.”

“Childhood bedroom, huh?” Eames said, looking around the room as he followed Arthur out. “Can we get everyone out of the house so we can christen it?” 

“It doesn’t even look the way it did when I lived here. It was years and years ago.”

“Still. I feel like I should exorcize the ghosts of whatever terrible blokes you fantasized about before you met me.” 

“I fantasized about normal, law-abiding men,” Arthur told him. 

“God, I bet they were boring fantasies,” said Eames sympathetically. 

“Look,” Arthur said to Hallie and Adam, coming upon them in the middle of half-hearted tantrums halfway down the staircase. “Everyone’s leaving. It’s time for bed.” 

“Yeah, Eames is going to fall asleep on his feet and fall down those stairs,” Danielle said from the foyer. “Glad you finally noticed.” 

“I’m fine,” Eames said, but he was yawning even as he said it. 

“But we’re coming back tomorrow, right?” said Hallie, as she let Arthur nudge her all the way down the stairs. 

“Yes,” Danielle promised. 

“Because Eames promised we would beat Uncle Arthur in a gunfight,” said Adam. 

“That sounds like exactly the kind of behavior I want to encourage in my children,” remarked Danielle, bundling them up. 

“Don’t worry,” said Eames. “Arthur represents the capitalist patriarchy, so it’s good that we’re attacking him.” 

Danielle looked at Arthur. “You represent the what?” 

Arthur shook his head a little bit. “Don’t even ask.” 

“It’s because of your suit, pet,” Eames said around another yawn, as he reached the bottom of the stairs. “Men who dress entirely in Tom Ford can represent nothing except for the capitalist patriarchy.” 

“And men who dress entirely in vintage thrift store finds represent the rebel alliance?” asked Arthur archly. 

“Mom,” Adam said urgently, “we need vintage thrift store finds.” 

“Well, at least that I can work with.” Danielle looked at Arthur. “Last time you came to visit, Hallie wouldn’t shut up about getting a Burberry scarf.” 

Arthur’s ears went pink. He said, “Good thing it’s Chanukah.” 

And Eames smiled because he knew very well that there was a lovely Burberry scarf for Hallie tucked up in their luggage.

“Arthur,” said Danielle, and shook her head and kissed his cheek and said, “See you tomorrow,” and kissed Eames’s cheek as well. 

“Bye, Mom,” Arthur said to his mother as she came down the hallway, and kissed her cheek. “Where’s Dad?” 

“Hiding in the barn, he’s been there for hours. Don’t worry, he’ll come out to say hi tomorrow when the house isn’t overrun with my family.” She smiled brightly at Eames. 

“Thank you for all the food,” Eames told her seriously. “It was lovely.” 

“More where that came from,” she said merrily. 

“I’m going to need new trousers,” Eames said. 

“He says ‘trousers’ whenever he’s trying to be extra-British.” 

“I’m too tired to be teased by you,” Eames said, and whistled for Tate, who had been watching uncertainly from the top of the stairs, as if they were going to make him stay there. 

Eames really was exhausted, more so now that he no longer had active awkward conversations to navigate and keep him awake. Arthur was talking to him as he drove, but Eames couldn’t make himself pay attention. He thought he was grunting enough to make it sound like he was awake, although the next thing he knew Arthur was shaking him awake and he was slumped against the car door. He blinked at Arthur blearily, waiting to place where they were and what they were doing. 

“Christ, you’re out of it,” Arthur said, recognizing the slowness of Eames’s reaction time. “God, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have kept you out nearly this late. Or I should have left you to sleep at the hotel.” 

“I’m fine,” Eames said, and managed to open his car door. “I am very close to being able to fall into bed, so I’m fine.” 

He let Arthur deal with the logistics, not just because Arthur was more awake but because Arthur _always_ dealt with the logistics. The suite was nice. Not overly luxurious, but roomy enough, and Eames didn’t even care because what it had was a bed and that was what Eames was looking for. He fell into it and toed his shoes off and decided that was good enough. 

“Eames,” Arthur said. “You’re still dressed.” 

“Ravish me tomorrow, petal, I can’t tonight,” Eames mumbled into his pillow. 

“At least let me…” said Arthur, and Eames felt him dealing with Eames’s belt. Eames couldn’t be bothered to even help him. He let Arthur shove him this way and that to get the belt off and then he was dimly aware that Arthur managed to get the covers up over him, and he was also dimly aware that Arthur kissed his forehead as he moved away, and he knew vaguely that that meant Arthur thought he was asleep because Arthur didn’t do those things when Eames was awake unless they had just shagged. 

Eames was asleep, too, or he thought he was, although he woke a bit when Arthur crawled into the bed next to him. So he was awake when Arthur whispered to him, “Thank you.” 

And Eames meant to say, _For what?_ He really did, except that he fell asleep for real. 

***

Eames woke alone in the bed, the sunshine bright in the room, and he pulled himself up and into the next room, following the smell of coffee. Arthur was sitting on the couch in the suite, reading. 

“That’s probably cold,” he warned, watching Eames drag himself over to the coffee. “I ordered it hours ago.” 

“Doesn’t matter,” Eames said, gulping some down. It _was_ cold. He put the mug down and turned to Arthur. “Hours ago? What time is it?” 

“Late,” Arthur said. “Afternoon.” 

“Jesus Christ,” Eames said, and scrubbed his hands over his face. “You should have woken me.” 

“You needed the sleep,” Arthur said. 

Eames let himself collapse onto the couch, head in Arthur’s lap. 

Arthur put the book aside and said, “How hard did you press yourself this last job to get yourself home in time?” 

“I didn’t,” Eames lied. “I pulled a few all-nighters in a casino gambling away all of our savings.” 

“It’s a good thing for you then that I have a bunch of your money stashed away in a secret account that you’ll only ever learn about if I die.” 

“Christ, darling, don’t talk about dying first thing in the morning, I can’t handle it.” 

“It isn’t morning.” 

“We promised the kids a gunfight,” said Eames. 

“Still daylight left. Why didn’t you tell me?” 

Eames opened his eyes and looked out over the suite and decided not to insult Arthur by pretending he didn’t know what Arthur was talking about. “I used your phone to order delivery that night in Shanghai, remember?” 

“Yes,” Arthur said. 

“There were texts from your sister. I wasn’t…snooping, I just…they were there, and the one I saw was about how they were worried about you and they’d love to hear from you, and I just… After that, you were off on that Lisbon job you took, and I was missing you, and you weren’t answering your phone because you were clearly busy, but still, I was thinking, ‘I sound like his sister,’ and then, I don’t know, I thought, ‘Maybe I’ll call his sister and tell her he’s still alive.’ And then she was nice and, I don’t know, I kept calling her, every so often, just to tell her you were fine.” 

“Fine,” said Arthur. “I’m not angry about it, Eames. I just don’t know why you didn’t tell me.” 

“I didn’t know if it was crossing a line. You seem to think I know exactly what to do in this kind of relationship, but I really don’t. I didn’t want you to… I meant to tell you, but I didn’t want to… Sorry,” he settled on finally. “Sorry. I don’t have an excuse.” 

“Do you talk to Cobb all the time, too?” 

Eames laughed. “No,” he said. “I promise to tell you if that starts up.” 

***

“We’re going to call this a draw,” was what Danielle said. 

And that made sense, because it was getting dark, and because Adam and Hallie, bewildered by the complete vicious seriousness with which they realized Arthur and Eames were taking the fight, had long since decided it was boring and had retreated inside, so it was just Arthur and Eames, stalking each other through cornfields. Arthur should have been at an advantage, and he was annoyed that he hadn’t yet incapacitated Eames. 

“Mom says if you don’t come in right now and have dinner then you won’t have any at all!” Danielle called from the edge of the cornfields. 

Arthur frowned. 

Eames’s voice came from the east. “I’m calling a truce, and if you bloody use my voice to trace me and kill me I’ll have Hallie and Adam try you for war crimes.” 

“As if the capitalist patriarchy follows the rules of war,” came Danielle’s voice. 

Arthur, grouchy over not having won, trudged out of the cornfield to find Eames standing with Danielle. 

“Cheer up,” Danielle told him, rolling her eyes. “It’s a tie.” 

“No.” Eames’s grin was wide. “He knows I won because this is his home turf and he should have had a huge advantage.” 

“We’re doing this again tomorrow,” Arthur glowered at him. 

“Dani, go inside so I can make out with your brother a little bit,” Eames said. 

“I swear to God, Mom is going to have a _fit_ ,” said Danielle, as she walked inside, but she was smiling. 

“God, Eames, seriously?” Arthur complained. “‘Making out’? Are we _twelve_?” 

“Gee, I don’t know, Arthur, why don’t you hand me the _toy_ you’ve been chasing me around with all day and I’ll assess what ages it’s recommended for.” 

“Shut the fuck up,” Arthur told him, and kissed him because sometimes that was the only thing you could do to deal with Eames. 

“Arthur, you are holding everything up!” his mother shouted at them from the back door. 

Arthur felt Eames smile into the kiss. “Oh my God, are you actually getting in _trouble_ right now?” 

“You’ve corrupted me,” said Arthur, and tried to look stern as he moved away. 

But he was aware he didn’t look stern. He was aware that he was wind-tossed and invigorated from being outside most of the day. He was aware that he was rosy and well-kissed. He was aware that he was grinning like an idiot. And he couldn’t help any of it. 

He sat at the table surrounded by his family and he watched Eames carry on normal, lovely conversations with all of them, exactly like he’d always been there, exactly like he always would be there, and he felt so floored by all of it, so _lucky_ , that he didn’t even know how to process it. 

After dinner he asked his father if he could see what he was working on, and Eames asked if he could tag along, and that was how Arthur found himself in his father’s workshop in the barn, watching Eames stare, awe-struck, at his father’s woodwork. 

Arthur had always been proud of his father’s craftsmanship. Arthur himself had never been good at coaxing beautiful things out of wood. He just wasn’t good at working with his hands. But Eames was, and Eames looked astonished, running a hand over the curve of a chair. 

“It’s good, isn’t it?” Arthur asked, practically bouncing with eagerness for Eames’s opinion. 

“‘Good’?” Eames echoed. “It’s spectacular.” 

His father blushed, and Arthur knew his father was where he got the blushing from. “It’s nothing,” his father mumbled. “Just a hobby.” 

“Just a _hobby_?” Eames repeated. “Do you know how much you could sell these for? Fuck, they’re gorgeous.” 

“What I’ve been saying for years,” Arthur said, and gave his father a meaningful look. 

His father shifted awkwardly. 

“This is where the bed is from,” Eames said, looking at a series of shelves now. “The one in New York. Your father made it. You never told me. I _love_ that bed.” 

“Arthur asked for that,” his father said. “I felt silly doing it, though. He spent a fortune shipping it, and he could have just bought an equally nice bed for that cost.” 

“No.” Eames shook his head. “Definitely not. The bed is a work of art. And I’m an artist myself. I know these things.” 

“That’s so nice of you to say,” said Arthur’s father, and he did look pleased. 

“I’m not just saying it.” Eames cocked his head suddenly at a table and then turned to look at Arthur. “Did your father make our table in Paris?” 

Arthur was struck by a sudden hot recollection of Thanksgiving. “Um,” he said. “Yes.” 

Eames stroked a hand over the table he was paused in front of and said, “In all seriousness, I am a _huge_ fan of your work.”


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Four

“ _Arthur_ ,” said Eames urgently, as soon as they were alone in the car. “Your _father_.” 

“I know,” Arthur said. 

Eames turned to him, rapturous. “No, I’m _serious_. His stuff is _beautiful_. Why did you never tell me?” 

“He’s shy about it. He doesn’t like it said.”

“ _Why_?” 

“He doesn’t think it’s good enough. He thinks it’s silly to make a fuss over it.” 

“That’s ridiculous,” Eames huffed out the window. “It is _spectacular_.” 

“I know,” Arthur said, with forced lightness. “I am doomed to be surrounded by artists who refuse to realize their own brilliance.” 

Eames recognized the jab, thought of the piles of art in the flat in Paris that he kept saying to Arthur, _No, no, no need to do anything with it, it’s all fine_. “Touché,” he allowed out the window. 

There was a moment of silence. 

Arthur said, “I didn’t bring it up to be cruel. I just want to point out that you think it’s ridiculous he doesn’t acknowledge how talented he is, and, well, I say the same thing about you.” 

“I’m going to remind you of this the next time you accuse me of being too arrogant.”

“You’re arrogant about the wrong things.” 

“But I definitely beat you in the gunfight this afternoon.” 

“Fuck you,” said Arthur good-naturedly. 

Eames smiled and leaned his head back against the car seat and watched the darkness past his window. This place. Arthur’s home. He thought of how long he’d spent pining after Arthur, tried to imagine telling himself a few years earlier, lovesick and despairing, that someday he’d have a life with Arthur, a home, a dog. That Arthur would tease him and smile at him and kiss him up against his childhood house. 

“You’re quiet,” Arthur said, when they were back in the hotel room. 

“Thinking,” Eames said. 

“That is always very dangerous. Leave the thinking to me, Mr. Eames.” Arthur pressed him against the wall and started unbuttoning his shirt. 

“Your mother told me that you’re like her.” 

“That’s what they say. I don’t especially see it.” Arthur kissed the wave tattoo that was Eames’s souvenir from their first job together. 

“I do.” 

This gave Arthur pause. He looked up curiously. “Do you really?” 

Eames nodded. “And she ended up with an artist. And so did you.” 

Arthur seemed to consider. “Are you saying I married my father?” 

“Did we get married when I wasn’t looking?” 

“You are _much_ louder than my father,” Arthur said, and kissed him. 

Eames kissed him back but was distracted suddenly, and Arthur could tell because he drew back and said, “What?” 

“I’d marry you in a heartbeat,” Eames heard himself say. “You know that, right? I’d marry you tomorrow. I’d marry you _now_. Let’s go to Vegas.” 

Arthur looked at him for a long moment and then Arthur kissed him, and in one way it wasn’t an answer at all and in another way it was all the answer Eames was ever going to need. 

“Come to bed, Titian,” Arthur mumbled into his mouth. 

And so he did. 

***

Arthur went for a ride. Arthur hadn’t been riding in ages but he was relieved to learn it was like riding a bike. The horse was an unfamiliar one, but his father had said he wouldn’t give him trouble, and he was actually lovely and Arthur let himself have a good long gallop before bringing him back to the barn, where Eames was throwing a ball for Tate and lifted an eyebrow at him as he trotted in. 

“That’s very hot, you know,” Eames told him. 

“You think everything I do is hot,” Arthur said, rolling his eyes as he got off the horse. 

“That’s what makes me such a good boyfriend,” Eames said. “That and how I let you do all the housekeeping.” 

“Oh, is that the secret to our happy relationship?” said Arthur, taking the saddle off the horse. 

“Yes. You’d kill me if you left the laundry up to me.” 

“Actually, that’s definitely true,” Arthur agreed, and walked back to the horse and kissed his muzzle affectionately and then went in search of a brush to wipe him down. 

“How much longer? Your mother wanted me to ask. She’s timing dinner.” 

“Half an hour?” Arthur suggested. “I rode him a bit hard; I need to be nice to him.” 

“Things you could also say about me.” 

“Ha ha,” said Arthur. “Go away and let me be a serious, non-constant-double-entendre-ing human being.” 

“ _Absolutement, mon cheri_ ,” Eames said, but not before licking the side of Arthur’s neck. 

Arthur shrugged him off and shook his head at Tate, who sat and watched Arthur with the horse curiously. “He’s ridiculous, isn’t he?” 

Tate looked off at where Eames was walking back to the house and wagged his tail. 

Arthur sighed and brushed the horse and said, “Yeah, I’m hopeless over him, too.” 

***

Arthur cooked the last night. Because Arthur _was_ a good cook, was a professional chef as far as his family knew, and he’d been lazy the whole week. Eames grabbed a bottle of wine and went off with Danielle, and Arthur wondered what they were talking about, wherever they’d gone. He could hear the kids in the family room, the dim buzz of the television. He cooked on autopilot, thinking of Eames, always of Eames, even more of Eames lately, of how effortlessly happy this entire week had felt, of how Eames at the end of every day, the last thing he saw at night, was the most amazing thing. He thought of Eames, pressed against a wall, hands on Arthur’s hips, holding him close, saying, _I’d marry you in a heartbeat_. 

Eames saying that. _Eames_. Who he had longed for so futilely for so many years. 

Arthur paused in cooking and took his die out and rolled it furtively on the counter. Four. 

“What are you doing?” his mother asked. 

Arthur, startled, tucked his die away and said, “Making dinner.” 

“With a die?” 

“Chef superstition,” Arthur said, and occupied himself with the food. 

His mother didn’t go away. His mother leaned up against the counter and watched him cook and Arthur tried not to feel self-conscious. 

She said, “This has been so nice, Arthur. It really has. I hope you’ll come back every year.” 

“Well,” said Arthur, and thought again of Eames. “Yes. Maybe. If our schedules let us.” 

“Will you go to his family’s for Christmas?” 

Arthur hesitated, then said, “He doesn’t really have one.” 

“Have Christmas?” 

“A family.” 

There was a long moment of silence. Then his mother said, “Well, he has one now, doesn’t he?” 

Arthur paused in what he was doing and felt suddenly abruptly emotional on Eames’s behalf, and that was stupid and he spent a little while telling himself he was behaving like an idiot and then it didn’t matter because he still turned and hugged his mother close. 

“Did you think we wouldn’t like him?” his mother asked, sounding surprised. “Because he’s wonderful, Arthur.” 

And Arthur knew he should have known this, because Eames could charm anyone he put his mind to. But still. “He’s so important to me,” Arthur said, and was shocked at himself, because he hadn’t exactly put into words how _terrifying_ Eames was. 

“I know,” said his mother kindly. “I can tell.” 

Arthur squeezed his eyes shut. “Yes. I worry everyone can tell. I worry I’m not even the same person I used to be. Do you even recognize who I am? I barely recognize myself. And it’s got to be obvious to everyone…” 

“What does it matter, Arthur? It isn’t anything to be ashamed of.” 

It was _dangerous_ , was what it was, but his mother didn’t know what he did for a living, and he didn’t want to worry her. He said instead, because he thought she would at least understand this, “I can’t lose him. I am in constant terror of losing him. I don’t know what I would…I don’t know _how_ I would…” 

“I can’t tell you that you’ll never lose him. The world doesn’t work like that. All I can tell you is that you have him now. And every minute you have him now will be worth whatever time you don’t have him.” 

Arthur thought of how long he’d wanted Eames, and of how sure he’d been that he would never have him, and how miraculous it was that he’d ever had him at all. And he nodded. And he said, suddenly anxious, “Do you think he knows? Because I’m really terrible at—”

“Arthur,” his mother cut him off firmly. “He _definitely_ knows.” 

***

“There just aren’t any _good_ ones, Eames,” Danielle said as Eames poured out the last of the wine. “I mean, I thought there were, but there were, like, two, and apparently one of them is my brother and the other one is gay and dating my brother, so, you know, heterosexual women everywhere should just give the fuck up, am I right?” 

Eames said, “I don’t know if your brother and I qualify as ‘good.’” 

“You definitely do,” Danielle groaned. “You make me sick, both of you.” 

Eames looked across at her. They were perched on the fence at the edge of the cornfield, and it was dark enough that he could barely see her. He said, “Do you know how long I’ve been in love with your brother?” 

“How long?” she asked. 

“As long as I’ve known him. Do you know how long I’ve known him?” 

“How long?” 

“Years, Dani. I knew him years, and I loved him all those years, before I ever…I don’t know, I’m telling you this because I guess I thought the same thing. That there’s no such thing as the happy ending. That it was stupid how mad I was for him because nothing would ever come of it, I’d just fuck it all up because that’s what I do with relationships.” 

Danielle was silent for a moment. Then she said, “That’s what he worries about, too, you know.” 

Eames made an inquisitive sound. 

“He worries he’ll mess it up with you. He’s terrified of it.” Danielle leaned forward in drunken urgency. “Eames, he’s horrible at expressing it, I don’t know why, I don’t know where he gets that from, but he loves you absolutely desperately. You’re the only thing I’ve ever seen him scared of.”

Eames knew this. He said, “He came out of the blue for me, Dani. In the last place I’d expect to meet the love of my life, there he was. It’ll happen like that. It really will.”

“I just worry about the kids, you know? Do you think I’m ruining them?” 

“Dani, I didn’t have a father, and I turned out to be one of the two good men in the world, so I think your kids have a shot, especially as they’ve got you going for them.” 

“See, this is what I mean.” Danielle gestured with her wineglass. “You’re a good one.” 

Tate made a little barking noise and stood at their feet, wagging his tail and looking off in the distance. 

“What’s up, boy?” Eames asked, and followed his gaze. “Ah, look, it’s the chef. Is dinner ready?” he called when Arthur was close enough. 

“Are you getting my sister drunk?” 

“No, he’s being lovely,” said Danielle, sliding off the fence and putting her hands seriously on Arthur’s shoulders. “You are dating the nicest man in the _world_.” 

Arthur lifted his eyebrows and said, “Yup, not drunk at all, clearly.” 

“I’ve totally forgiven him for pulling a gun on me the first time he met me.” 

“Good, because he was losing sleep over that,” said Arthur. 

“Eames?” Danielle called without looking away from Arthur. 

“Yeah,” Eames said, hopping off the fence. 

“ _You_ are dating the nicest man in the _world_ ,” said Danielle, and gave Arthur a sloppy hug. 

“Okay,” said Arthur, and looked in bemusement at Eames over Danielle’s shoulder. “Go up to the house. It’s almost time to eat; we’ll put some food in you.” 

“Come on, Tate,” Danielle said to the dog. “Let’s leave them to the very romantic cornfields.” 

“Very romantic cornfields,” Eames said to Arthur, quirking his lips at him in amusement. “It’s bloody freezing.” 

Arthur was giving him a funny look. 

Eames said quizzically, “Okay?” 

“I love you,” Arthur said, on a rush of breath. 

He didn’t say it very often, and he seldom said it so forthrightly, and Eames knew it was true but he couldn’t help that he still felt buoyant every time Arthur said it. He beamed at him and said, “I know—”

“No, I _love_ you,” said Arthur, quick, desperate. “I love you so much. You’re… You’re the best…the only…the _most_ … You’ve changed my life. Do you realize that? You’ve so totally, completely, and utterly changed my life, and I know I don’t tell you, but _every day_ I love that you’re mine. Can’t believe that you’re mine. Think you must be a dream, all of this, you here, loving me back.” 

Eames stared at him. 

“Say something,” Arthur said, looking pained.

Eames didn’t. Eames grabbed him and kissed him and backed him into the cornfields and tumbled him over, crumpling the stalks. “Jesus Christ, how do you _do_ that?” Eames gasped at him, unbuttoning Arthur’s coat. “You say nothing for months and months and then you say _everything_ like that.” 

“Should I stop?” asked Arthur, looking like he was _actually uncertain_ about his incredibleness. 

“Christ, no, never, ever, _ever_ stop, do you hear me?” said Eames, and kissed him. 

“I love you,” said Arthur. 

“Say it again,” Eames told him. “Keep saying it.” 

“I love you, I love you, I love you,” said Arthur, and wrapped his arms up underneath Eames’s coat and drew him in. 

“I am going to make you come in this cornfield and sod dinner, do you understand me?” 

Arthur nodded and said, “I love you,” and drew Eames in for a kiss. 

They should have been more careful, but there was no way to not make a mess of themselves in the middle of a cornfield and they didn’t even _try_ , and it didn’t matter because Arthur kept saying _I love you_ , disjointedly, gasping it, panting it, like now that he’d let himself say it again he couldn’t stop it, and Eames couldn’t think past the buzz that was creating in his head, kept saying it back to him, and usually Eames liked for Arthur to say his name when he climaxed, cherished the ragged desperateness of it, but Arthur said, “Love love love,” brokenly and Eames swallowed the word, tried to bundle it up so it would be there forever, through all the days when Arthur didn’t say it in exactly that way. 

It was cold and there were stars overhead and Arthur was curled tightly against him in a way he didn’t usually indulge in after sex. Eames couldn’t decide if it was because of how cold it was or because of whatever overload of emotion had driven Arthur’s mood that night. But Eames didn’t care because it was nice to cuddle Arthur close. He watched his breath condense in the air overhead and listened to the wind rustle through the cornstalks all around them. 

“They’ll be wondering where we are,” Arthur mumbled into Eames’s jumper. 

“Darling, I don’t think anyone is wondering where we are,” Eames remarked wryly. 

Arthur pressed his face into Eames’s chest and said abruptly, “Never leave me,” sounding oddly on the edge of tears. 

Eames was startled. “What?” 

“I can’t lose you, Eames. This is why I…I can’t lose you. I can’t go back to the way it was without you. I don’t know how I did that, not having you, not having this, day after day. Don’t make me go back to that.” 

“I would never,” Eames said, bewildered. “I would never… Hey.” He nudged Arthur up, although Arthur resisted him every step of the way. “Where is this coming from?” 

Arthur shook his head and squeezed his eyes shut and dropped messy, uncoordinated kisses over Eames’s face. “I love you. I fucking… I cannot _believe_ how happy you make me. I need you to know that. You… It’s _amazing_ and _embarrassing_ how much I… I need you to know I can’t lose you. I need you to know—”

“Hey,” Eames cut him off, and pushed him back down, pressed his face against his neck and brushed kisses against his temple. “Hey, hey, hey,” he whispered. “I know. I know, love. I know.” 

And above them there were stars and wind rustled through the cornfields of Arthur’s youth and Eames murmured into Arthur’s beloved skin, over and over. _I know, I know, I know_.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter Five

Arthur sat with a boarding pass to Paris in his hand and looked at Eames. Eames was frowning over the coffee he’d just bought. He was muttering about it. Something that sounded like _bloody terrible coffee_. It had to have been terrible, because Eames was doctoring it with cream and sugar, and he never did that. 

Around them the rest of humanity bustled toward its gates, and boarding announcements droned overhead, and Eames finished fussing with the coffee and gave Arthur a weary smile and said, “I don’t understand how this country manages to get tea _and_ coffee wrong consistently.” 

Arthur said, “I want to change our plans.” 

Eames looked delighted. “Oh, lovely. An adventure. You know I love those. Where do you want to go?” 

Arthur licked his lips and said, “Vegas.” 

***

The thing was that he had never given much thought to marrying Eames. He had never thought he would be the sort of person who would need that piece of paper. And then Eames stood, serious, in a tacky chapel in one of his terrible outfits, and promised to love him forever, until the end of their lives, officially, in front of witnesses, and Arthur was shocked by how much it turned out he wanted that piece of paper. 

“How the fuck much did you pay for this suite?” Arthur asked when he saw it, when the ceremony was over. 

Eames said, “More than they were even asking, considering I had to bribe them to let us have Tate with us. And you wouldn’t let me carry you over the threshold, at least let me fuck you against a window with all of Vegas spread before us.” 

“Is this how married people behave?” Arthur asked drily. 

“I’ve got the sexiest husband in the universe, I want everyone to know it,” said Eames, and there was that word, _husband_ , and Arthur said, “Fucking get naked already.” 

***

“What the _fuck_ ,” Eames demanded from underneath his pillow, “is that horrendous noise?” 

“It’s my phone,” Arthur said blearily, patting over the blankets on the bed for it. 

“Shut it up,” Eames commanded. “Shut it up _now_.” 

“I can’t find it,” Arthur said, and followed the noise to the floor, half-tumbling off the bed as he located it. He answered it without thinking, just to get the noise of it to stop echoing through their hungover heads. “Oh my God, what could you possibly want?” was how he answered it, and slumped over on the floor. 

“Arthur,” said Dom, sounding disapproving. 

_Fuck_ , thought Arthur. 

“Is that any way to greet me?” demanded Dom. 

“Oh, did I say that out loud?” said Arthur. 

“You’re in America,” Dom accused. 

“How do you know that?” asked Arthur, annoyed. 

“Your sister’s Instagram.” 

Arthur processed this. “My sister’s…” He sat up suddenly and frowned at the immobile lump of Eames on the bed. “Is everyone I know in constant touch with my sister?” 

“It’s almost Christmas. Don’t you think you should come spread some Christmas cheer? James and Phil would love to see you.” 

“Dom, I need to call you back when my brain isn’t trying to pound its way out of my skull,” said Arthur, and hung up the phone and struggled to the bathroom and found aspirin and carried some back to the bed for Eames as well. 

“That was Dom?” Eames mumbled, swallowing the aspirin. 

“He wants me to visit him.” Arthur collapsed next to Eames and said, “How much did we drink last night?” 

“It was our wedding night,” Eames said. “We were celebrating.” 

“Let’s not do that again.” 

“Well, hopefully we’ll never get married again. Can we have a bit of a honeymoon before we go and see Cobb?” 

“You don’t have to come,” Arthur said, surprised. 

“Of course I’m bloody coming. I’m your husband.” 

Arthur thought he was going to get tired of hearing that eventually, but probably not for a while. 

***

Arthur thought their December had had way too much socializing in it and maybe they should spend their January not answering their phones at all. Never getting out of bed. Just sitting around saying stupid, giddy things about being married. 

They decided not to tell Dom they were married. They decided not to tell anyone. Arthur already thought they were dangerous enough to each other without that little detail. Anyway, Arthur also thought it didn’t matter. He had gotten married for himself, not for anyone else, so he didn’t care whether anyone else ever knew. 

Dom said, “Hello, Arthur. Hello, Eames.” 

Eames said jovially, “Hello, Dom! Isn’t it so good to see each other again? Like a little family reunion! Are those your children? Hello, Cobb children!” Eames went over to them. They stared at him in bewilderment. 

Dom said, “Oh. He, uh… Is he always like that?” 

“No. He’s trying to be nice. He’s not your biggest fan. He thinks you’re mean to me.” Arthur gave Dom an innocent look. 

Dom looked offended. “I’m not mean to you!” 

“You kind of almost got me killed.” 

“Only a few times,” Dom defended himself indignantly. 

Arthur smiled at him. “Relax, would you? I made him promise to be nice.” And then Arthur walked over to greet the kids. They were happy to see him, and it was nice to see them. Neither looked much like Mal outwardly, but he thought he could see Mal in the way they behaved, and it was nice to see the evidence of how she lived on. 

Dom talked about how he was teaching these days, as an adjunct. His father-in-law had gotten him the job and he liked it. “Best to stay out of dreamsharing,” he said. “I was a little reckless there at the end.” 

Arthur was glad he’d said that, because it won him points with Eames, who definitely agreed with that statement. Dom inquired about their most recent jobs, and Eames and Dom could at least talk shop, and Arthur was relieved, so he left them to it and cooked them dinner and industry talk got them through the whole meal. That and a lot of wine, so that Arthur barely noticed that Eames’s hand was on his thigh until he noticed that Dom was looking at it, and then Arthur realized that it was possible he’d been flirting with Eames for the entire last half of dinner, because that was just how he _was_ with Eames, and it was worse if he was tipsy, and Dom knew they were together, of course, but still Arthur hadn’t intended to be so very…date-y in front of Dom. 

Arthur said, “I should wash up—”

“Don’t be silly,” Eames said. “You cooked, darling. I’ll handle the washing up. I am very good at washing up,” Eames told Dom. 

“He’s less good than he thinks he is,” said Arthur. 

“But I get points for trying, don’t I, pet?” asked Eames earnestly. 

“Always,” Arthur told him. “Lots and lots of points for trying.”

Eames looked satisfied, carrying the plates into the kitchen.

Arthur looked at Dom and said, “Sorry, he’s—”

Dom said, “Oh my God.” 

Arthur blinked. “What?” 

“Mal was right.” 

Arthur had no idea what he was talking about. “About what?” 

“She always said he would be perfect for you, and I thought she was crazy for thinking that. I mean, he’s _Eames_ , and you’re _you_ , and I thought she was just an over-romantic Frenchwoman and all you really needed was to get laid or something, but oh my _God_ , Arthur.” Dom smiled crookedly at him. “Look how _happy_ you are. I’ve never seen you so happy. Ever.” 

Arthur looked toward the kitchen, where the water was running and Eames was humming BB Brunes to himself under his breath. He looked back at Dom and he said, “I know.” 

“Oh, Arthur,” said Dom, and leaned back in his seat. “I miss her every single day, but tonight I’m really wishing she’d gotten to see this.” 

“She’d just say ‘I told you so.’ Only she’d say it in French, so it wouldn’t sting as much.” 

***

“Well,” said Arthur, tossing his tie over the back of the hotel room’s chair. “I feel like you’ve been the best boyfriend ever during this whirlwind tour of everyone in my life.” 

“Husband,” Eames reminded him from the bed.

“Yes. Husband. I’ll get used to that eventually.” Arthur settled on the bed and kissed Eames and said, “Is there anybody whose approval I should get? I feel like I’ve stolen you away and I didn’t even ask for permission from anybody.” 

“You know better than anyone that there isn’t really anybody for you to meet,” Eames said, and he said it lightly but Arthur knew better. 

Arthur said, “Well, now you’ve been adopted by everybody, in case you didn’t realize it. They’ll never leave you alone.” 

“I’m okay with that,” Eames said, and he looked like he meant it. 

Arthur looked consideringly down at Eames and said, “You know who I would like to meet? That fucking bastard with the Eames lounge.” 

Eames laughed. “Darling, you’d kill him, and conjugal visits are a bitch, I hear.” 

“I’d kill him with finesse.” 

“No, you wouldn’t, you’re too angry.” 

Arthur dug into Eames’s pocket and pulled out his totem and checked it. 

“Real life?” Eames asked. 

And Arthur looked at him and echoed something his own subconscious had told him ages ago. He kissed Eames softly and said, “Dreams aren’t this good.” 

 

_The End._


End file.
